


One of our Dragons is Missing

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Cheese, Cows, Crack Treated Seriously, Dragons, Episode: s02e13 The Last Dragonlord, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Merlin's terrible excuses, Merlioske-friendly, Pre-Slash, affection disguised as insults, magical reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26043571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: Now that his father, the dragonlord, is dead, Merlin can order dragons to bugger off and stop harassing Camelot's citizens. What a shame this useful new ability does not come with a similar skill for fabricating convincing stories that explain where said dragons have gone.Episode coda for The Last Dragonlord in which tales get taller, tails get greener, cheeses get spicier, and manservants, magicians and milkmaids finally start to get the recognition they deserve.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 134
Collections: Merlin Canon 2020





	One of our Dragons is Missing

**Author's Note:**

> This was a plot bunny that germinated in Chat a couple of years ago, and has taken several months to come to fruition. Huge thanks to the endeavours of my co-conspirators Wasp, Clea and LFB for their vigorous encouragement of the most whimsical of muses. Especial thanks to Wasp for helping me to beat this beast into shape and finish it off with a suitably cheesy flourish.

As Arthur limped through the still smouldering streets of Camelot, Merlin at his side keeping up his incessant chatter as usual, the people came out of their houses and cheered. Their jubilation was cautious at first, and many of them sent a fearful glance up to the heavens as they passed. But then as the skies failed to blacken beneath the ominous flap of leathery, reptilian wings, more and more of the people came out of their homes. 

“The dragon is dead!” called Merlin. “Prince Arthur dealt him a mortal blow! You can come out now! Rejoice, for Camelot is safe!” 

And come out they did. A trickle of adult citizens set foot outside their homes to start with, led by the stoutest of heart and those with the least to lose –- the tricksters and beggars and elderly among them. Soon they were joined by the alewives and seamstresses and guildsmen and women who had peeped in caution through the cracks in their shuttered windows before stepping incredulously into the streets. Before long, a merry throng of children dashed out through the forest of their fathers’ breeches and mothers’ skirts, evading their scolding parents and running shrieking along the paths and byways and alleyways to trail in Arthur’s wake. Their delight should not have come as a surprise. They had been cooped up, hidden beneath workbenches and in basements, away from the scourge of the dragon’s flames. It must have felt like a holiday as they skipped and hollered. 

By the time the throng reached the citadel, the hullabaloo must have reached the court, for a jolly delegation of rejoicing knights and courtiers received Arthur and Merlin on the steps –- congratulating the prince with hearty blows to the upper arms and back. 

Never one to use a short word when a flurry of longer ones would do, Merlin had embellished his tale liberally during their triumphant passage along the narrow streets of the lower town.

“It was all Arthur’s doing!” Merlin crowed to all who would listen. “The prince slew the mighty dragon. He dealt him a mighty, mortal blow. And the mighty, fearsome creature…”

“That’s three mighty’s,” Arthur pointed out.

“...mighty, fearsome creature,” Merlin repeated, more loudly, after darting a glare at his interrupter. “Turned his cowardly tail and fled, festering ichor spurting from the gash in his side.” 

“Did it sizzle?” piped up a solemn-faced, adenoidal child so diminutive that she barely reached Merlin’s hip. “My mum says that dagg-un b’ud sizzles, cos they’re evil.”

“Why, yes! The dragon’s blood sizzled, blackening the grass wherever it landed, but brave Prince Arthur did not flinch, no! Not though his armour was sooty and his sword ran wet with the horrible beast’s innards and gizzards…”

“Don’t over-do it, Merlin,” growled Arthur. 

But the little girl seemed unphased by Merlin’s grizzly tale. “Did it bake a dorrible doise?” 

“Make a horrible noise? I’ll say it did! It bellowed and screeched and squawked in its pain, begging for mercy, but Arthur gave it none,” said Merlin. “You should have heard the racket it made! They must have heard its mortal cries from here to Caerleon!”

Arthur took pains not to roll his eyes. Merlin’s embellishments were beginning to get a bit far-fetched, but he supposed that the people needed some sort of a catharsis after such a painful and terrifying siege, so he said nothing more to correct his companion’s more flowery additions. Besides which, he’d be lying if he said he did not enjoy the attention – probably almost as much as Merlin seemed to be relishing the opportunity to listen to the sound of his own voice. 

Of course, all this great praise from his manservant would not continue for long. Merlin would not pass up the chance to send some sly jabs Arthur’s way at some point. The only surprise was that he had not yet succumbed to the temptation. 

Resigning himself to a certain amount of inevitable ridicule from his manservant, Arthur folded his arms and listened, a wry smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. 

“Did Prince Arfur stab him? Like this! And this! And this!” The child’s companion, an even smaller, more excitable urchin with a wooden sword in his hand, issued a flurry of jabs aimed upwards towards an imaginary dragon, punctuating his question with high-pitched though war-like cries. Thanks to his height and arm length, this brought the tip of his blunt wooden sword within range of sensitive parts of adult male anatomy, causing nearby men to scatter, cursing, hastily placing hands and satchels in protective positions around their more vulnerable areas. 

“Aye, that he did!” said Merlin with a chuckle, cheeks pinking as he knelt with his face at the child’s level. “Our valiant prince stabbed him! Stabbed him, he did!” He made a vigorous upwards thrusting movement with one hand, to illustrate his point.

“Oooh!” said the crowd. 

“Stabbed him! Right there in the throat and slashed him through the stomach, gore and entrails oozing from its belly.” 

“Did they stink?” 

“Boy did they stink! Pooh!” Merlin held his nose.

“Ugh!!” shrieked the delighted children. 

“But Arthur carried on, ignoring the stench and the intestines and the… and the… yuckiness that spilled out all over his jerkin in a great smelly mess. Not that the clotpole would care about that. He’s not the one that has to wash it!” Merlin smirked, side-eyeing Arthur.

“Pooh! But he doesn’t stink now, does he?” The child wrinkled her nose. 

“I had to rinse him off in a stream,” said Merlin blithely. “You should have smelt him before. He stank like a garderobe!” 

“Merlin!” growled Arthur, although he couldn’t help letting his own mouth quirk up a little. He had been waiting for the ridicule to start – and if that was all that Merlin came up with, he would be surprised. 

“Of course, by that point the dollophead had passed out from his injuries. He’s lucky to have me to clean up after his fights!”

“Merlin!” Arthur cuffed him over the head, but without malice. “You can’t address me like that!”

“Ow!” Still grinning, Merlin rubbed his scalp. “Sorry, my Lord. Did I say _dollophead_? I mispronounced the word _prat_.” 

More for the form of it than for any other reason, Arthur lunged after him, but Merlin backed away, hands in the air. 

“And all this with no thought to his own safety,” Merlin said, only a little breathless as he dodged the prince’s grabbing arm. “Thinking only to protect his people and the kingdom of Camelot! Long live Prince Arthur!” 

“Long live Prince Arthur!” responded the grateful crowd. “Long live Prince Arthur! Long live Prince Arthur!” The swelling refrain was repeated and carried across the courtyard, the love of his people filling Arthur with the kind of warmth that made the long tense siege and battle worthwhile. 

“My father says I can be a knight one day,” piped the little boy with the wooden sword. 

“You’re dot handsub edough to be a dight,” countered his companion, eyes narrowing. The two reminded Arthur of himself and Morgana at a similar age. 

The boy scowled and gave her a shove. “Father says knights must be kind to girls or I’d hit you too, like Prince Arthur hit the dragon.”

“Huh. I wadda be a dight, too!” said the girl, shoving him back. “So there!”

“And me!” squeaked another. 

“And me!” The squeals of the children rang out above the hub-bub of the crowd, who were still singing Arthur’s praises. 

“Well, with such enthusiasm, Camelot will never lack defenders.” Arthur chuckled, the crowd’s euphoria and Merlin’s shining eyes swelling his chest and making him feel as if he could conquer the world. 

But much later, after he’d reported to his father and dismissed Merlin to take some much-needed rest, Arthur sat on the edge of his bed and cast his mind back over the events of the day. It was true that Merlin had got a bit carried away with the story but at its heart, there must have been a grain of truth, surely? 

_“You dealt him a mortal blow,”_ Merlin had said. 

Arthur frowned, trying to remember doing such a thing. It was odd that he couldn’t remember anything about it – it was not as if it were a common occurrence for even him, beating such a fearsome beast. And even if he had lost consciousness for a moment or two… surely he should be able to bring such an important victory to mind? Come to think of it, Arthur remembered none of the gore that Merlin mentioned, neither lying on the ground nor on Arthur’s clothes when he came round. Sure, Merlin could have cleaned him up – but if that was the case, why were his clothes dry? 

Something strange about the story did not add up and he racked his brains for a while longer as he lay upon his bed, pondering. But the day had been long and heavy. Sleep overcame him fast and he succumbed to its embrace, secure in the knowledge that his people were safe at last. 

In the days following the dragon attack, Merlin was run ragged securing walls, bringing succour to the injured, and helping Gaius to build up a supply of medicines and bandages while the citadel and its citizens slowly started to recover. So what with one thing and another, he didn’t have much time to spend serving the prince. This was just as well. 

“What are you going to tell Arthur, if he asks for more details?” Gaius said one night as they supped a hastily concocted meal of gruel and bread that Merlin had purloined from the kitchen. 

“I have no idea.” Merlin shook his head sadly before ladling a huge mouthful of hot slop into his mouth. It was nourishing and his stomach had been empty all day. “I had hoped that the prat’s ego would be large enough for him to just accept that he killed the dragon without realising it.” 

“You should not underestimate Arthur so.” Shaking his head, Gaius sipped delicately from the side of his spoon. 

Merlin sighed. “I know. He’s suspicious, but he hasn’t had a chance to talk to me.” 

“Well, you can’t avoid him forever. You’d better get your story straight soon.” 

As always, Gaius’s advice was sound. For the last week or more, ever since the dragon’s escape and attack, Merlin had encountered Arthur several times for a few moments here and there as he strode through the palace with a retinue of admiring knights in tow, but each time he had managed to engineer the situation so that they barely had a chance to exchange a few words. But during those encounters, no matter how brief, Merlin could hardly fail to notice the questioning way that Arthur’s gaze lingered on him and the troubled set of Arthur’s mouth as he passed. 

But the truth was that by the time Merlin had run out of excuses for not attending Arthur in his chambers, he still had no idea how to flesh out the gaps in his account.

“How on earth did you manage to get muddy hose all over the floor?” Sighing, Merlin surveyed the debris that littered Arthur’s bedchamber and shook his head. 

“My manservant has been missing these last few days,” said Arthur, as if that explained anything. He leaned back, balancing on the rear two legs of his desk chair, chewing his quill pen. His feet were perched on the desk, boots crossed one over the other, the picture of ease and privilege. 

“And you don’t know how to clean up after your royal self?”

Arthur shrugged. “It’s never come up.”

“Huh.” Nose wrinkling in mock distaste, Merlin bent to start collecting the offensive articles together. “Your royal feet certainly know how to stink.” 

“What did you say?” 

“I said, your royal highness certainly uses a lot of ink.”

“That’s not what you said.” 

“If you can hear me so well, why did you need to ask?” 

So far, so normal. But Merlin knew his prince well. Beneath Arthur’s studied attitude of casual nonchalance lurked a sense of energy and curiosity – something in his hooded gaze and the slow blink of his eyes hinted that he would start asking difficult questions soon. 

Merlin racked his brains for an excuse to leave the room before the inquisition could begin. “I’ve just got to…”

“So…” Arthur interrupted, lengthening the syllable into a sort of purring, predatory drawl that made Merlin’s mouth go dry. He lifted his feet off the table, placing them on the floor with an air of purposefulness that did not bode well, and pierced Merlin with his intent gaze.

“Hmm?” said Merlin, trying to appear nonchalant, heart beginning to race. Gods. Was this what a mouse felt like when held in the clutches of one of the palace cats? Arthur’s years of taking petitions in court made him a formidable interrogator. It was time to get out, and fast. “I hope it’s quick, because I urgently need to get down to the laundry and—” 

“About this dragon.” Arthur’s eyes narrowed and he tapped the table with his quill. “And this so-called mortal blow.” 

Merlin swallowed. “Hmm? The dragon? Oh, yeah. Really well done, Arthur. Now if I could just get the final linen undershirt out from under your desk, I’ll take it to—” 

“Why were there no entrails or gore on the ground? Why was my jerkin and mail clean and undamaged? Where was the animal’s carcass?” 

Biting his lip, Merlin clutched at his hastily gathered bundle of Arthur’s fetid underclothing and inwardly cursed himself for failing to exit quickly enough. “It’s. Um. Gaius says it’s a magical creature? I mean, it certainly seemed to—” 

“There’s something about this whole thing that does not add up, Merlin. And you’re at the centre of it somehow.”

“Me?” In a vain attempt to deflect, Merlin plastered his most manic grin to his face. “I’m just a servant, sire. A bumpkin and a blatherskite.” 

“Hmm. Are you now? I’m beginning to wonder. The dragon’s disappearance is rather… convenient, don’t you think? What really happened, Merlin?” 

“Um.” 

“Come, now. Are you protecting someone?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Did someone else come to our aid?” Arthur carded his hands through his hair. “You were upset. When the dragonlord died. Even though he was a magic user, he seemed like an honourable man. And I keep asking myself why you would lie about something like this, and that’s the only solution I could come up with. There was someone else there.” 

Even though Merlin was trying to hide the fact that he had banished the dragon singlehandedly, it did hurt a little that Arthur didn’t think him capable of such a deed. Tamping down the sharp sting of disappointment, Merlin told himself that it was a compliment to his superior acting skills, disguising all his abilities so well that Arthur’s mind automatically skipped over the obvious answers to his questions and jumped straight to the conclusion that Merlin must have had help.

Anyway, however inadvertently, by underestimating his manservant, Arthur had at least created a plausible story that Merlin could latch on to. He should be grateful.

So why did his eyes prickle and his throat contract?

No matter. His feelings were immaterial. The prince had to be convinced of Merlin's incompetence.

“There… there was someone,” he ventured. “A… a magic user.” 

“A sorcerer?” Half rising, Arthur leaned forward, palms on the desk, voice rising. “Why did you not…?”

“Warlock. He was a warlock. One does not look a vanished gift dragon in the mouth, sire,” said Merlin. “And he… he seemed… harmless.” None of this so far had been an outright lie.

“Harmless?” Arthur’s voice had risen almost to a shout by this point. “Since when has a sorcerer…”

“Shhh!” Merlin hushed him, with a pointed look towards the door, outside which lurked guards and what-not. “Hush! I promised not to tell anyone.” Also, not a lie. 

With a hearty exhale that pushed his lips out into a pout, Arthur sank back into his chair. “And then what?”

“Hmm?”

“Then what happened, Merlin? Don’t act all innocent. You know I need to know, and you know that I will not let you out of this room until you have told me everything. Did the… the… wizard...” 

“Warlock.”

“Did he just vanish the dragon with a wave of his hand?”

“Of course he didn’t!” 

“Then what did he do.” 

“He… um.” Racking his brains for something plausible, Merlin just blurted out the first thing that came into his head. “He um. Transfigured it. Into a… a… harmless creature.” Also true. Just about.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Be serious, Merlin. I have to report to my father about this incident. I obviously can’t report the ravings of a deluded peasant...” 

“It’s true! He turned it into… well, obviously with that big a beast, it couldn’t just be turned into a gnat or something. Haha. So he turned it into a… into a… a… um… cow.” 

Okay, now Merlin had strayed over the fence that contained an area where there was a tenuous link with the actual truth and was now gadding about in the murky fields of fantasy and conjecture. But really, he didn’t think he’d done badly in the circumstances. 

“A _cow_?” 

“Yeah. A cow.” Improvising wildly, Merlin drew upon a cherished childhood memory of a mummer performance that had taken place in the village, with various of the troupe dressed up as beasts to be slain by the ever-popular figure of the Black Knight. They’d had a cow. Well, two people dressed up as one. One had the front legs, and a mask, and the other the back legs and a tail. “A slightly greenish one. And it had sharpish teeth, but otherwise it was just like any other cow. And it just sort of ran off. Mooing.” 

“ _Mooing_?” Arthur’s lip half-lifted in incredulity, making his nose scrunch up on one side. 

“That’s what I said.” Drawing himself up to his full height, Merlin inhaled sharply for effect, an effect that was slightly marred by the way that he pulled his face when his nostrils were assaulted by the full force of Arthur’s smelly socks. “Ugh! By all the gods! What have you been wearing on your feet? I’d better get these cleaned.” 

“Fine, have it your way.” Arthur said. Shaking his head, he peered down at his parchment and scratched something onto it with his quill. “You may go.” 

“On my way, Sire!” He’d got away with it. Hardly able to believe his luck, Merlin scuttled towards the door. Highly satisfied with his plausible explanation, he allowed himself a moment of self congratulation. 

He’d always hated cows. Let them take the heat, for once. Bloody huge, milky, cud-chewing, cowpat-producing gits. 

His free hand was on the door handle when Arthur added, “Oh, by the way.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Make sure you’re ready for a reasonably long trip. We leave at first light.” 

“Leave?”

“Of course.” Arthur grinned, teeth glinting by the light of his candle. “To find this dragon-cow, of course. And bring its head back on a platter for my father.”

Damn. 

“Of course, sire.” 

Suppressing a groan, Merlin backed through the door. God’s teeth! He’d congratulated himself too soon. How the hell was he going to procure a dragon-cow at short notice? 

The gods were punishing him for all the people who had perished under the dragon’s onslaught, as if his own conscience were not making him pay already. He should have known it was too good to be true.

Arthur cast his eyes around the scorched clearing where he had lost consciousness after defeating the dragon, hoping to unearth a clue as to the beast’s current whereabouts.

“Which way did you say it went, again? After the fight?”

Merlin, who had been about as much use as a kitten in a dogfight all day – or in fact, if Arthur really thought about it, ever since the dragonlord died – poked listlessly at a bit of partly-burned bracken and shook his head. 

Rolling his eyes, Arthur glared at Merlin. 

“Now, of all times, he suddenly loses the power of speech. Normally I can’t get you to shut up! Come on, Merlin. You must remember something. If you can’t remember where the dragon went, surely you must know where the sorcerer went.” 

Merlin’s shoulders went all stiff in that way that they always did when he was trying to hide something, and he shook his head again.

“Honestly, Merlin. You’re hopeless at keeping secrets. Just admit you’re protecting the sorcerer and be done with it.” 

Merlin looked up at last, mouth set into a stubborn line. “Well, what if I am?”

“He’s a sorcerer,” yelled Arthur. 

Fury surged through him. Why the hell had Merlin suddenly developed such protective instincts towards magic users? It was damned inconvenient. Not to mention highly suspicious, although Arthur would never speak of his suspicions to his father. Not about Merlin. He didn’t have time to examine his own feelings now, but he couldn’t help thinking that when he added “don’t be such a sentimental idiot!”, he might as well have been addressing himself. 

“I knew it. Why should I tell you anything? If you don’t kill him, your father will!” 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I won’t kill the man, Merlin. I swear it. He has helped us to protect Camelot, and I will see to it that he is rewarded accordingly.” 

Merlin let out a huffy, unconvinced laugh. “Yeah. Right. And you’ll let the cow go free, too, no doubt.” 

“That’s another matter. The creature is responsible for the deaths of innocent people.” 

“It’s a cow!”

“We don’t know if it will stay that way. It must be found and neutralised, Merlin. The people have suffered. They are grieving, and they deserve to see this threat defeated. Surely you understand that.” 

Merlin flinched as if struck. His eyes widened, deepening in colour to a tragic, glistening, stormy blue. His head sagged and he looked at the ground, biting his lip. 

Arthur had interrogated enough peasants accused of stealing to feed their families during a time of famine to know what a guilty conscience looked like. But why would Merlin suddenly develop a conscience when Arthur mentioned his peoples’ suffering? It wasn’t as if Merlin had set the dragon free…

There it was again. That nagging thread of suspicion that kept tugging away at Arthur’s brain. Well, clearly he wasn’t going to get any more information about the dragon’s whereabouts by probing Merlin any more deeply. Abruptly, he changed tack. “So, tell me which way the sorcerer went. If we find him, we can ask him whether the dragon will transform back again, or if the spell is permanent.Will that do?” 

“I suppose so.” Mouth set in a mutinous line, Merlin blinked, extending an arm. “He went that way.” 

“But that’s towards Camelot.” Arthur frowned. “And the dragon-cow creature? Where did it go?” 

Merlin’s arm wavered but did not shift position. 

“Do you mean to tell me that we’ve ridden out all this way, and both the dragon and the sorcerer were in Camelot all along? Idiot!” 

“Ow!” Merlin rubbed the back of his head where Arthur had cuffed him. “That hurt! Bully.”

“Bumptious bumpkin.” 

“Pompous prat.” 

“Irritating, obstructive yokel. I’ve half a mind to put you in the stocks for the day.” 

“You can’t. The dragon burned them down.” 

“I’ll have them rebuilt specially. And have your name carved on them.” 

“He’s not in Camelot now. Neither of them are.” 

“Oh, so now he knows where they are.” 

“I didn’t say that! I said I knew they were not in Camelot. That’s not the same thing.” Merlin muttered something under his breath that might or might not have been “pompous arse.” 

“I heard that.” Arthur aimed a slightly harder cuff at Merlin’s inky locks.

“Ow!” Merlin rubbed his head again and pouted, which was unfair considering the circumstances. “That hurt.” 

“Stop trying to look interesting. We’ll go back to Camelot and see if we can find them there.” 

“They’re not there.” 

“So you say,” growled Arthur, mind working overtime, wondering where all the promise of the day had gone as he stalked back to his mare. Because, despite what Merlin might think and say about his wits and how repeated knocks to the head may blunt them, Arthur was not stupid. 

Furious, mind. But not stupid. 

And he was beginning to get an inkling. Several inklings, in fact. The sort of inklings that led him to conclude that the truth was far simpler than Merlin would have him believe. And Merlin? Merlin, with his inexplicable tears on losing the dragonlord, and his terrible excuses and his sudden and uncharacteristic inability to speak? Merlin was at the heart of it all. 

The _idiot_.

Merlin hated cows. Not in a general sense, of course. They were great for making milk and cheese and junket and whatnot, and for consuming grass, which Camelot seemed to have in great quantities. But in a more specific sort of _sharing a field with them_ sense... well. He was not a fan.

Back in Ealdor, he had always managed to avoid any chores that involved cattle by dint of the fact that he and his mother were far too poor to afford any. It was the only advantage, in his view, of being poverty-stricken peasants without two pennies to rub together. Cows were far too large, with their lugubrious jaws and troublesome tendency to stampede at the drop of a hat. Give him a few goats and hens any day. 

All of which meant that this whole situation just capped off what had already been an exhausting and unpleasant week. It was just the bovine icing on a prat-infested cake. 

Because, despite Merlin’s best efforts to avoid the gorgeous prat, Arthur had spent every day providing him with a list of chores a mile long, and had ensured that said chores ran towards the most disgusting and miserable end of the spectrum. Plus, he had been in a rotten mood ever since their aborted mission to track the dragon. From the dirty looks and narrowed lips that greeted Merlin each morning on Arthur waking, and the lack of communication via anything other than barked out orders, Merlin gathered that Arthur blamed him for the lack of a prize from their hunt. Which was nothing new, and normally he would have got over himself by now. But this time, Arthur’s temper showed no time of clearing, and after yet another day cleaning out the Prince’s slimy stables, sorting through the stinking middens, and collecting the Prince’s discarded underclothing after training, Merlin was beginning to think that destiny could go hang, and he would be better off seeking his fortune elsewhere in some far off kingdom where princes were not prats and their manservants were held in the high esteem worthy of their daily travails on behalf of said princes against adversaries both magical and dangerous.

Huh. Fat chance. 

And then there was the whole concept of the dragon-cow. Merlin was regretting not coming up with a less cow-related explanation for the dragon’s disappearance, because Arthur had latched onto the suggestion that the dragon-cow might still be in Camelot with all the fervour of a terrier with its eye on a rat’s nest. Which, together with the prince’s foul mood and warped sense of humour, explained why Merlin found himself in his current predicament. 

Gods. Merlin was beginning to rue ever coming to this god-forsaken, clotpole-ridden, pestilent pit of a place. 

“It’s not this one,” he called from where he stood in the middle of the field full of Camelot’s prized cattle, next to a placid-faced cow who was eyeing him curiously while her jaws worked on chewing. It was the tenth heifer that he had checked that morning.

“Didn’t think so,” said Angela, the milk-maid who had been sent to accompany them to the herd, and who was holding on to the cow’s rope halter with all the care and strength born of her long experience with the animals. “She’s Daisy, sir. She’s one of our best milkers, your honourable worship, sir.” 

“Her milk hasn’t taken on a greenish tinge, lately?” said Arthur, whose mood had lifted the moment that Merlin entered the field, and now seemed to be having the time of his life. He took an apple from his pocket, and took a great crunching bite out of it, chewing noisily. 

Merlin’s stomach gurgled. He had not had breakfast. The apple looked delicious. It didn’t help that Arthur kept licking his lips and making appreciative noises. 

“The cheesemaker hasn’t started making slightly spicier cheese?” Arthur added.

“Spicier cheese?” Merlin choked. “ _Spicier?_ ”

“Not that I’ve noticed, sir,” said Angela, more polite than Arthur deserved. “Although cheese takes a few months to mature, so we can’t know for sure.” 

“Fine, fine. We will have that looked at later, then. But I reckon this one is a likely one, Merlin. It’s certainly chewing a lot. Maybe you should check its teeth. Perhaps they are getting sharper.” 

“Now I know you’re taking the piss.” 

“I’m deadly serious and it’s the dungeon for you if you disobey a direct order.” 

“Worth it.” Gods. Merlin winced, gazing at the cow’s grinding jaws, fleshy lips and flaring nostrils. He really didn’t fancy looking any more closely.

“Shut up, Merlin and look inside the cow’s mouth.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, sir,” said Angela, coming to Merlin’s rescue. “Cows don’t like people looking in their mouths, sir. You need to put ‘em in a crush if you want to look in there, my lord. But they are just normal cow teeth, sir. You can tell from the way she’s chewing the cud. She wouldn’t be able to if they was sharp, like a dragon’s, sir.” 

Bless milk-maids in general, and Angela in particular. Bless them all. If he hadn’t already had his hands full of cow, Merlin would have happily given her a hug for her intervention. 

“I see,” Arthur replied from the safety of the other side of the fence, not bothering to disguise his smirk. “Very well, Merlin. We will forego the mouth. But you do need to check her tail for signs of dragonishness.”

“Oh, by all the gods,” groaned Merlin, who knew where this was going, having inspected the tails of nine other beasts already that morning. “Do we have to? Angela says that all the cows are accounted for, surely we already know that the dragon-cow isn’t here in our herd--”

“Merlin!” admonished the prince. “I’m shocked at you! It could be an imposter! It could have done away with the real Daisy, and taken her place! Keep checking. Its tail, if you please.” 

“But, Arthur!”

“That’s “sire” to you. Now check the tail.” 

“If you lift it straight up, she won’t kick, you, sir,” offered Angela, helpfully. 

Betrayed, Merlin sent her a wounded look, losing all prior inclinations towards hugging. “Aye, _sire,_ ” he said through gritted teeth. “Looking at its tail now. _Sire._ ” 

“Well, go on, then,” said Arthur with all the cheerfulness of one who, having seen what the area beneath a cow’s tail was capable of, was standing firmly on the other side of the fence containing said area, and thus safe from any mishaps that might ensue. “What shape is it? Any dragonish coloration or shaping?” 

“Brown and distinctly bovine,” said Merlin glumly. “As well as being smelly and crusted with cow poo, as I’m sure you know, you arrogant, self-important, smug ars—.” 

“Go on. Lift the tail up, Merlin. There might be scales underneath.” 

“I hate you so much.” 

“No you don’t.” 

“Yes I do. Words cannot express how much I completely and utterly abhor every inch of your disgusting royal self.” 

“You can’t talk to the crown representative like that, Merlin!” 

“Huh.” Merlin tried to convey by the power of his scowl exactly how much he despised Arthur and everything that he stood for, before putting one hand to Daisy’s tail, shuddering as he touched it, because it was exactly as crusty with effluent as he had expected.

“Moo!” protested Daisy, shuffling her hooves so that he had to move sideways to avoid being trampled. “Moo!”

“Well, well, well. I think she fancies you, Merlin,” drawled Arthur. “That must be a cow mating cry!”

“And you know all about cow mating calls, do you?” Merlin snipped back. “Heard a lot of them, have you? Been introduced to a lot of cows as potential brides have you?”

“Oh, very funny, Merlin. Very droll.”

“You want to be careful what you say, there, _Sire_. Wouldn’t want the local kingdoms finding out what you really think of their daughters. Might start another war.”

“Stop prevaricating and look more closely.” 

“Prevaricating? That’s a big word for you.”

“Get on with it.”

“Sorry about this, old girl,” Merlin said to the cow as he lifted her tail and peered beneath it. 

There was a loud snort from Arthur’s vicinity, accompanied by pained wheezing noises. “Well?” Arthur choked, between chortles. “Any signs of scaling? Greening?”

“Want something for that cough?” Merlin hissed through his teeth as he dropped Daisy’s tail and reversed away from range of any effluent that may issue from it. “Gaius has just the thing for it.” 

It was true, but only because when he’d told Gaius about his upcoming tour of inspection, the old man had laughed so much that he needed to take some of his own anti-coughing tincture. Gaius then went on to suggest that Merlin could make a replica dragon head out of some old bits of parchment that he had lying around in his workshop, and a drop of green paint. Unfortunately, Merlin’s artistic proclivities being meagre and undeveloped, the results had not been convincing and were now busy decomposing somewhere on the castle midden heap. 

“No, no.” When Arthur turned back from where he had been doubled over, making agonised sounds, his mouth was twisted and his cheeks were pink. 

“Are you all right?” 

“Oh, Gods.” Arthur’s lips bore a sort of suppressed smirk that made Merlin want to either punch them, or kiss them off his face. “Your face. You have cow… what-not. On your face!” Arthur doubled over again. 

A horrible suspicion dawned on Merlin then, and he lifted an accusing finger. 

“You,” he choked out. “You had no intention of looking for the dragon-cow at all, did you?” 

“None whatsoever.” Arthur shook his head, not bothering any more to conceal his guffaws. The sunlight glinted on his golden hair and his face softened into a delighted smile. “I got you good and proper though, didn’t I?” 

Without answering, Merlin schooled his face into his best and most intent glower and stalked across the field towards Arthur, vengeance on his mind. He stooped only to pick up a handful of stinking brown muck, helpfully deposited by Daisy or one of her cow compatriots a few minutes earlier. 

Meanwhile, Arthur’s expression morphed into one of amused condescension that Merlin recognized from long experience as signifying that the prince, although outwardly nonchalant, was calculating trajectories and mentally plotting his escape in minute detail as he started to back away.

“You hoodwinking, double-crossing, arrogant git!” Merlin said. 

“Now, Merlin, don’t be like that.” Arthur lifted both hands. 

“Entitled, overbearing, two-faced pillock!” Approaching the fence, Merlin hefted his projectile in what he hoped was a menacing way and started to scale the gate without using his hands, instead using the point of his elbow for balance, so as not to drop any of the stinking slime that was now oozing between his clamped fingers.

“Consider it revenge for you lying to me about the dragon’s fate. You didn’t expect me to believe that cock and bull story, did you? Or should I say cock and cow?” Arthur let out another bark of laughter but continued backing away. “Cock and cow, get it?” 

“You utter arse.” Merlin leapt down from the fence, landing with what he considered to be commendable ease, without dislodging the pat he had clutched in his hand. “Why don’t you come here and inspect the cow’s bum yourself, mate, and I’ll give _you_ dragon scales…” 

“You’ll have to come and get me.” Reaching the pathway, Arthur turned and broke into a run.

“Coward!” With all his might, Merlin hurled the pat at Arthur’s retreating back, striking a full blow against his favourite red leather jerkin. “Hah! Gotcha!” 

“It may have escaped your notice that you’re the one who will have to clean up my garment, Merlin,” Arthur called over his shoulder. He slowed to a halt, hands on his knees, still laughing. 

“Worth it,” said Merlin. “To see your posh, ugly face smeared in cowpat.” 

“My face isn’t smeared in… urfgh!” Arthur spluttered when Merlin caught up with the git, and followed up his original shot with a carefully targeted hand-smear, ensuring that every part of Arthur’s face was covered. 

“It is now,” said Merlin smugly. “Dollophead. Dollophead! Get it! It’s a dollop, and it’s on your head! That’s quite funny, when you think about—oof!” 

“Merlin!” growled Arthur, diving for Merlin’s knees and tackling him to the ground. 

“I notice you didn’t object to being called posh. And ugly.” Merlin managed to call out just before his face was muffled in Arthur’s cloak.

“Obstreperous peasant.” 

But then, Arthur whispered something else, a word bitten out from between gritted teeth, a single word that Merlin had dreaded hearing from that beloved voice ever since he came to Camelot…

_“Sorcerer.”_

Abruptly, Merlin’s legs, previously sturdy, betrayed him and crumpled beneath the weight of Arthur’s words, his own guilt, and his destiny. 

Yanking him up by the neckerchief, Arthur grabbed both Merlin’s scrawny wrists with the other hand. Merlin went limp, all fight having been drained from him.

Arthur knew about his magic. 

“You knew!” Merlin gaped at him, trembling. “How long… are you going to…?” he gulped, and darted a quick glance across to Angela who was still watching them, curiosity written large across her features. 

“I have had a few days to think it over,” Arthur said. “And clearly you are an idiot, with a lot of explaining to do. And I am seriously considering creating a private set of stocks, just for my own amusement. I have a feeling that I’m going to need them, probably several times a day for the next few weeks while you are busy explaining everything. Perhaps Daisy can come and provide ammunition.” 

“Moo!” Daisy agreed, with immaculate timing. 

Bloody cows. Honestly, it was almost as if she were sentient. Were sentient cows a thing? Merlin wouldn’t be surprised if so. He’d never liked them. Cheese, yes. Cows, no. 

“But before that,” Arthur continued. “We’re both going to get cleaned up.”

“Yes, sire.” Emboldened by the chink of hope that Arthur had offered him, Merlin tried a tentative grin. When it was met by a smile in return, he decided to go all in. “Although I have to say that the brown-haired look suits you.” 

“Brown-haired--?” After letting go of Merlin’s wrists for a second, Arthur lifted a hand to his head and examined the sludge that this left on his fingertips while Merlin took the opportunity to slither out of his grasp and stumble down the lane in a bid for freedom. “Merlin! Come back here!” 

“Not likely” Merlin called over his shoulder as he legged it as fast as he could, with Arthur in hot pursuit. 

Angela the milk-maid exchanged a look with Daisy. “Gwen was right. They’re both complete idiots.”

“Moo!” Daisy shook her head, flicking a fly off with a twitch of her ear. She always had been a bright old girl, but just recently Angela could swear that she had begun to understand everything that anyone said. 

“I think the inspection’s over now.” With a practised flick of her hand, Angela released Daisy’s halter and patted the beast affectionately on her rump. “Why don’t you go and see about some nice, fresh grass? Off you go!” 

With that, Angela picked up her skirts, skipping off towards the dairy, singing a popular song about buttercups and daisies and how silly men were, leaving Daisy alone and content in a quiet corner of the wildflower-strewn field. Above her spread the blue canopy of the sky, the skylarks sang and the sun cast its warm gaze across the drowsy land. 

Before she plodded back towards the rest of the herd, Daisy turned to watch the two men who were now scuffling in a puddle some distance along the path towards the citadel. 

“Moo,” she said again, shaking her head sadly. 

This time, if anyone were watching, they would have observed her eyes glowing an uncanny shade of reptilian green. She let out a small hiccough that sounded almost like a dry chuckle and was accompanied by a tiny green flame…

And for many years afterwards, while King Arthur and his consort Merlin the Sorcerer ruled over Camelot’s golden age, with the fair High Priestess Morgana and Prime Minister Guinevere Smith by their side, the citadel was renowned throughout all the five kingdoms for the spiciness of its green cheese.

***THE END***

**Author's Note:**

> Not my characters, I'm not getting paid


End file.
